Angel in the Battlefield
by Spark Writer
Summary: My attempt at season three: John is devastated by Sherlock's suicide and Sherlock is determined to return to John, no matter what the cost. "He learned to see them everywhere, in everything. London was a battlefield. Life with Sherlock had been a battlefield. Friendship was a battlefield."
1. Prologue: John

The coffee was ready.

John poured the scalding liquid into two mugs, and with clinical precision, placed two sugar cubes in one, and left the other as it was. He stared at the coffee mugs for a long moment.

"Coffee's ready," he said, in a half-whisper. He lifted the first mug, as though toasting the ceiling, then released and let it smash to the floor. It bled rivulets of brown onto the rug. "Oh, god," John murmured and rested his forehead against the wall.

John Watson was not insane. He was coping with a grief so profound, that it took him to his most primal place of emotional competence. He was by turns ferocious, guilty, devastated, gloomy, satirical, and pensive. He acted very strangely sometimes, and Mrs. Hudson would sit in the flat and ask him for "just another cup of tea, dear," when in reality, she wouldn't leave him alone in such a dark state of mind. Like a room hung with picture frames crooked a little to the left, nothing felt right, any longer. Flashes of the old life came to John in quiet moments, flickers of violin songs, ridiculous quarrels and Cluedo boards jackknifed to the mantle. Often he awoke in the middle of the night, bewildered and anxious, certain he had heard a haunting baritone calling to him from the kitchen.

If John had thought he'd sustained damage when returning from Afghanistan, it was nothing compared to what he lived with now. Civilian, soldier, civilian. That was the process, that was how it should be. But John was caught between worlds; a soldier struggling across the battlefield toward home, leaving his dearest friend in the dirt. He had lived through so much and been hurt _so_ deeply that there was no way he could carry on as a civilian, or ever disremember the things he had seen. He knew better than most, that battlefields weren't always defined by open skies and bullets. He learned to see them everywhere, in everything. London _was_ a battlefield. Life with Sherlock had been a battlefield. Friendship was a battlefield.

There _had_ been a war, and no one could ever convince John otherwise. What other name was there for such heightened human experience of survival, trust, betrayal, fear and reckless courage? It had brought out the best and worst in everybody, and as the dust began to clear, John's heartache lifted somewhat. For when good and evil took their own lives, the scale leveled, and the world was given a chance to build a better world on a foundation of its mistakes.

Still, John did not forget what he and Sherlock had had, or what they could have had, if only Sherlock had decided to walk away from the rooftop's edge. It could have been magnificent, it really could have.

But John would never know.

_This is the way the world ends._

_This is the way the world ends._

_This is the way the world ends._

_Not with a bang, but a whimper._


	2. Prologue: Sherlock

Sherlock lived a drifter's life, never remaining in the same place for more than the blink of an eye, lasting only long enough to create the echo of retreating footsteps. In the first days after the fall, Molly had helped him in every way possible, until Sherlock decided that he should not visit her home so frequently, and Mycroft took over. It was a different sort of help Sherlock received from Mycroft, almost as though he was being given orders from the ruler of a distant kingdom. Mycroft provided locations where Sherlock could see without being seen, documented the whereabouts and lives of Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, and when he had begun doing the same for John, Sherlock had begged Mycroft not to. He couldn't bear to think of John, not now. This was the most dire and drastic situation he'd ever landed himself in, and he needed every brain cell to be in perfect order. Not mired in guilt and what-if's.

If he'd been so inclined, Sherlock could have strolled up and down Baker Street without being noticed. The thing about ordinary people was the fact that they never expected the unexpected. As far as they knew, Sherlock Holmes was dead for all eternity, hadn't the papers said so? Why on earth would they see a tall, pale man and assume he was the late detective? That was the key: they wouldn't. Consequently, Sherlock was able to exist in public from time to time with rather feeble disguises. He had seen people he knew and people he recognized, and even Mrs. Hudson, one day—staggering down Baker Street with a load of groceries—but Sherlock felt that if he ever laid eyes on John Watson again, he might fracture into a thousand shards. After following John to the graveyard that cloudy morning, Sherlock had been unable to repeat his actions. Sentiment would get in the way of survival, he was sure of it.

Nevertheless, he worried about John; worried for him, and had instructed Molly to keep a close eye on him. Sherlock loathed himself for causing John so much pain and in very dark moments, wished he really were six feet under. Better dead than a liar. He worried about the pressure the media had put on John for his decision to believe in Sherlock. He worried that Lestrade's colleagues had given him too much trouble for not immediately taking the bate, he worried that Molly would be caught and punished for helping him fake his own death, and he worried that Mycroft would turn his back. Sherlock worried about Moriarty's return, for the consulting criminal was unquestionably _not _dead. The worries consumed Sherlock, and he was glad for it. Perhaps if he suffered enough, it would redeem him and erase the mistakes he had made.

The roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital had become a sort of memorial for Sherlock. It was the last place he had spoken to John, the last place he had seen John as himself, the oncoming tragedy not yet between them.

He would gaze at the imposing building and try to roll his eyes about the arguments they'd had and the laugh about the times they had shared, but it just wasn't funny at all.

_It's difficult to ever go back to the same places or people. One turns away, even for a moment, and when they turn back around, everything's changed._


	3. Chapter One

It was the sort of morning that began sunny but later turned gray, breeding a surge of late-morning dissatisfaction. Detective Inspector Lestrade was sitting in his office in the beating heart of Scotland Yard, gazing blankly at a stack of crime reports and suffering a curious lump in his throat. His focus was pitiful, his energy lacking, and his usual optimism had vanished, leaving him in a thoroughly unbearable mood. He had snapped at his colleagues for several months now, ever since—_he didn't like to think about it_—and been rather horrible at his job. He was surprised he wasn't fired. Sergeant Donovan and Anderson had not endured the same distress, but they were more subdued, and Anderson's attitude seemed to have lost its edge.

When John had called Lestrade that awful afternoon, and said "He's dead," Lestrade had been slammed with terrific guilt. He wasn't entirely sure why—he hadn't pushed Sherlock off the roof or nay such thing—but he couldn't shake the feeling that the decision to arrest Sherlock had contributed the result, the final problem. And then there was the awful realization that Sherlock had been a fake; that he, John, Molly, Donavan and Anderson had all been puppets in an elaborate, glorified prank. Resentment was one of hundreds of emotions. At odd times, when Lestrade was brushing his teeth, or driving home after work, he found it hard to believe that a man intelligent as Sherlock could have lied his way through life. It didn't seem fathomable and the signs didn't all fit. Some of them clashed with each other and left Lestrade shaking his head at the brutality of such unfinished business. Difficult as it was to admit, Lestrade missed Sherlock Holmes and his freaks and faults and his brilliance, fake or not. He was tired of having to explain to his superiors that there was no one to solve the most mind-bending cases in emergencies, that they were on their own. Like a child that had impulsively gone along with the school bullies, Lestrade felt angry with himself and with Anderson and Donovan for their actions. He distanced himself from them, and found himself glaring at them during meetings when they weren't looking. Sherlock's suicide left echoes, and Lestrade's change of heart was one of them.

Now, Lestrade's sour mood was only enhanced by the twonk of Donavan's posh heels on carpet. She stuck her head round the door a moment later, confirming this. "Do you have a moment, sir?"

Lestrade heaved a sigh, and set his mug on the desk. "I suppose. What is it?"

"Well—" She closed the door behind her and sank into the chair opposite Lestrade. "You've been out of character lately and we were wondering—"

"Mind telling me who you're referring to when you say _we_?" Lestrade fired Sally Donavan a dark look over his heap of paperwork.

She flushed. "Anderson and I were talking over dinner last night, and—"

"That must have put a damper in your activities." Lestrade barely contained his sarcasm. "Or one of you has got a barmy idea of what is and isn't romantic."

"Sir!"

"Sorry, go on."

"We know this all has to do with Sherlock, sir, and we wondered why. We were right; he _was _a fake!"

"Frankly," said Lestrade, rising from his chair, "I think this is disrespectful to a dead man. Maybe it was just another day on the job to you, but for me it was betraying a good friend."

Donavan shot out of her own seat. "But sir, Sherlock Holmes lied to everyone! He was a criminal and masqueraded as a detective _just so he could get a thrill. _I told John Watson to stay away from Sherlock Holmes. I told him that Sherlock was a psychopath, and he didn't listen—and neither did you all these years, for that matter—so do _not _blame me. Or Anderson! You got yourselves into this damn mess!" Without a backwards glance, Sergeant Donavan wrenched the door open and stamped through it. "You're all mad!" she squawked, shoving a gormless looking Anderson aside.

Lestrade calmly picked up his mug of cold tea and poured its contents over the criminal reports until they resembled wet paper mache. "Bollocks," he said cheerfully, and left his office, desk dripping.

Outside, he fished in his pocket for his mobile, and dialed John Watson's number. "Hi, John, it's Greg," he said when John answered.

"Oh, how are you?"

"Not good. I take it it's the same for you?"

"Jesus, you have no idea…"

"I've got an hour free for lunch. Know of any good places?"

"Yeah, I do, actually. Ever been to Anglo's?"

Ten minutes later, Lestrade entered a small, but lively restaurant, and saw John seated a two-person table beside the wall. "Fancy meeting you here."

John looked up and smiled wanly. "Hi, Greg."

Only then did Lestrade see how tired John looked, almost ill. None of the old fierceness remained, and it gave Lestrade a pain—sharp and light, digging in his stomach and behind his eye sockets.

"How's Scotland Yard holding up?"

"Oh, terribly," Lestrade said lightly. "It's not the same."

John nodded. "It isn't."

"But you, how are you doing?"

John rubbed his temples, and straightened. "Not well. I'm taking it day by day, but that doesn't seem to be working very well and the world expects me to cry for a few weeks, then move on as if my best friend didn't throw himself off a building, and god, it's so empty. So, so, empty." He looked away, scarlet cheeks burning in his otherwise pale face.

"I'm sorry."

"I know." John seemed to be trying to master his emotions; his forehead and brows were tight.

"I miss him, too, you know. Damn it." Lestrade sighed and leaned his chin in his hands. "He was bloody annoying, wasn't he? Brilliant, though."

"Honestly speaking, do you think he was a fake?" John crossed his arms and waited, eyes shadowy.

"Originally, yes."

"You don't anymore?"

Lestrade took a sip of water, and looked John straight in the eye. "Sherlock Holmes was the smartest man ever to graze the earth. It was real, too, not fake junk that a person can make up. In the end, people will believe what they want, but I knew Sherlock for a long time, and he wasn't a liar. Pure and simple. What the hell was he thinking, though, telling us a load of rubbish like that?" Lestrade leaned back, desperately confused. "Why would he tell you he was a fake?"

"I had something to do with Moriarty, it must have."

"Ever wonder where he's gotten to?"

"Of course, he vanished into thin air!"

"He doesn't have business here, now that Sherlock's—er, dead."

"Bastard. If I ever find out he was there and shoved Sherlock off St. Bart's, I will find him and I will _kill _him."

Lestrade didn't doubt it.

* * *

**Hello! To those of you who have read so far, thank you and stick with me! Updates may be a little slow from time to time, but I'm determined to give Sherlock and John the reunion they deserve. Here's to a tearful and fistful reunion!**

**-Spark Writer-  
**

**Would you mind leaving a review? Even a small one? Thank you and love you all!  
**


	4. Chapter Two

John's life had reverted to its previous lonely monotony. He awoke to utter silence—often out of a cruelly vivid nightmare—got up, poured himself a cup of lukewarm coffee, and took an apple with him to his laptop. Usually he checked his email, glanced blankly at his last blog post (_0 comments) _and left the apple untouched. There was little point in eating when there was little point in living. Mrs. Hudson visited daily, bearing food and whispers of comfort. She took Sherlock's death in stride, acting as the sad but resilient mother of a suicidal son. John appreciated her presence, but realized that he had to lock his tears away until the door clicked shut behind her. Then he would rest one hand on the violin, and the other on the Union Jack pillow, and sob as a desperately as a small child. Daily life at 221B Baker Street differed greatly, so much so, that it seemed a different universe than the one in which Sherlock had been a breathing, living reality. Now, no tall figure played melodies of Johann Sebastian Bach on a glossy violin, no chemical spills marred the surface of the kitchen table, no body parts resided in the fridge, and fresh bullet holes were no longer torn in the plaster. All was well ordered and quiet. And in John's opinion, hideously wrong.

The grief had turned him a bit funny. All his life he'd been deemed kind, compassionate, brave, loyal and even "adorable." Nevertheless, he had been through so much hardship and loss, that sometimes it all became too much. After all, there was only so much one human could stand. Sherlock's suicide was the straw that broke the camel's back, and had made John's heart a rather cold one. Not that he would ever kill—Jim Moriarty was the exception—or abandon, or hurt anyone. But he had lost his faith in humanity and life in general. From now on, his existence was a slow but certain decent to old age, and eventually, death. Like the saying went, "When a candle blows out, the world is much darker than if it had never shone at all." Sherlock had taken with him all the energy, danger, vivacity, and reckless bravery that made John Watson's life worth living.

Now?

Now, it was all dark. All calm. All over. And all was not well.

xXx

"When was the last time you saw your therapist, dear?"

"I don't need a therapist, Mrs. Hudson. It never helps."

"I know, John, but I wish something did." Mrs. Hudson turned away from the stove where she was putting the kettle on for tea. "Your eyes are so sad. …Always."

John drummed his fingers lightly on the arm of the sofa, and gazed over at the large double windows. Sheets of rain muddled the outline of the buildings opposite. "She's a person paid to listen. That never works."

Mrs. Hudson sighed and rubbed her forehead. "I'm sorry, dear. It's all so awful, isn't it?"

John didn't answer.

"And why haven't you taken that thing of the mantle? It gives me the shivers."

John flicked his gaze at the skull, and shrugged. "Sherlock was right. It's nice to have someone to talk to."

"But does it have to be a skull?" Mrs. Hudson shuddered and dropped teabags into two mugs. "You know you can always come to me."

"Yes," said John, thinking that if he came to Mrs. Hudson as many times as he felt grief, the landlady would never sleep. "It's very kind."

Mrs. Hudson busied herself with putting the proper amount of sugar into each cup, then handed one to John. "Oh, dear!" she cried, suddenly. "You don't take sugar, do you?"

"Oh—it's fine, Mrs. Hudson. Don't worry about it." John took a sip of his tea and instantly regretted it.

"How is it, bad?" She peered anxiously at him, and John half-smiled.

"Good. Really good. Er, it was nice of you to come up and make tea, but I've got a call to make…"

"Oh, certainly!" Mrs. Hudson glanced at her tea. "Would you mind if I took the mug downstairs with me? It would be a shame to waste."

"Of course," said John. He picked up his smart phone, and dialed a number. He knew the number well, like his own age or birth date. He listened in the electronic silence for a sign; a catch of breath, a rustling, a sound that would crack the stillness. Mrs. Hudson closed the door behind her, and John heaved a sigh that was really closer to a groan. "You idiot," he whispered to himself. "Why are you doing this?"

In second later, a clinical sounding woman's voice informed him, "The number you are calling has been disconnected." There was a beep, then more silence. John closed his eyes and turned the phone off. Even if he had been able to connect, there would be no way Sherlock could hear him. But then again, grief made a person do strange things.

"Strange things indeed," John said to the skull, who stared back at him with eyeless sockets. In his screwed up state of mind, John had thought that if he tried every mode of communication, there would be some way to reach Sherlock. It wasn't enough to stand at his grave and weep. It wasn't enough to write letters and toss them to the wind. It wasn't enough to lay a hand on Sherlock's Stradivarius with tear-filled eyes. Now John could add phone calls to the ever-lengthening list of things that weren't enough to penetrate the barrier between them. What was the barrier, anyway? Lines were becoming blurred, the boundaries between life and death and the difference between grief and depression. Black and white mixed until the world was drenched in mournful gray, and John was drowning.

He made up his mind to visit Sherlock's grave on Saturday, for at least there, he felt somewhat at home.

* * *

**Hello peoples! **

**Sorry for the wait, life is just too busy! I realize these few chapters are pretty depressing, but I don't want to rush into the reunion. There's a lot of damage and pain going on and that should be shown. Thank you, thank you for reading! Review if you like this, and feel free to tell me any ideas you have for future chapters. 95 percent of the time, I take the advice of those who give me suggestions and ideas. :)  
**

**Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate it, and know that I'm grateful for all of you!  
**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	5. Chapter Three

Mycroft was late.

Sherlock hated his brother during moments like these, moments when valuable time was wasted in favor of waiting for a callous brother who never held their meetings in high regard. He paced back and forth, always keeping out of sight behind a tree or an extravagantly large headstone. Sherlock had chosen the meeting place; the cemetery seemed most appropriate for this sort of business, and was a site where one could be certain no person would look for Sherlock Holmes. Not alive, anyway. And after sundown, when things turned sinister and chilling, it was highly unlikely that a certain John Watson would drop by for a visit.

But it was dark. It was damp. And Mycroft was late.

Sherlock leaned against a tall pine, and gazed up at the moon. It glowed feebly from behind a vale of cloud vapor. Somewhere beneath that same moon, everyone in the world he loved and loathed was going on about their business, whether that was pouring another cup of tea or plotting a blueprint for the next national disaster. The latter, thought Sherlock, applied only to James Moriarty. Moriarty hadn't killed himself at all; rather, he'd feigned death just to avoid giving Sherlock the information he needed to call off the assassins and consequently, save his friends. Sherlock was humiliated as he recalled the events on the hospital rooftop. At the time, he'd believed Moriarty really was dead—the gun, the blood, the lifeless eyes, the final problem. He hadn't stopped to check for a pulse, nor look for a bullet. The world had been crashing down; what did it matter if Moriarty was playing or not? It hadn't. Not then.

Now it was mind-numbingly clear. Wound: blood capsule at the back of the head. Bullet: blank. The papers never once made mention of a double suicide. Only one, committed by a fake genius in a funny coat. It was as though Moriarty had picked himself up and walked away. Sherlock knew that if he told anyone of Moriarty's supposed suicide, it could harm him even further. It could prove his insanity and unreliability. Worse, it could prove him as a liar. He rested the back of his skull against the rough bark, and closed his eyes against the encroaching night. Then he did something he had been unable to do since his fall. He entered his mind palace, and sharply pulled a scene from his memory. The details came to him quickly, with a sense of inevitability. And he was there.

_Hair fibers—human hair. Hugely magnified, adjust microscope. Better. Adjust microscope again and see something else on the lens: a curious speck. Lean closer. Squint. John enters; concentration severed. Navy dressing gown—wrinkled—hair wet. Mug of coffee in hand, hot. He winces—too hot. Pull away from microscope, observing. John sits. It's raining. Stand. Violin: desk, right hand corner. Missing bow. Annoyance. Turn to John, inquire. A crevice appears between his brows, he looks up—_

"I suggest you invest in a better timepiece."

Sherlock put up a hand, his mind screaming at being jolted so harshly from the memory. He opened his eyes and saw Mycroft looking at him. "You're late."

"You're early," said Mycroft, tilting his chin and gazing appraisingly at his brother. "Who's right?"

"As the meeting time was 8:00 and it's currently 8:26, I believe I am. But then, you never thought punctuality was of any importance." Sherlock straightened and slowly approached Mycroft, closing what little distance there was between them.

Mycroft removed his pocket watch from the depths of his waistcoat and held it out to Sherlock, triumphant. "Observe."

Sherlock did, and felt a litany of irritation surge through him. "Your watch reads half an hour behind mine, Mycroft. Well, obviously; you always were contrary. That, or it runs slow and you're too indolent to fix it. You always were lethargic, too."

Mycroft pocketed his watch, self-satisfaction shifting to vexed fatigue. "We haven't met face to face for several months, now, Sherlock. I take it you're here to discuss returning from the dead?"

Sherlock turned away and strolled light-footed down the path. "Yes."

"Perhaps the world isn't ready."

"They never will be."

"Of course. The world will never be ready for a dead man to reappear, heart still beating. Not even you."

"When I inspect a body, I know it's dead."

"How is it, then, that in the eyes of the world, you are in fact dead?"

"They don't _know,_"spat Sherlock, pausing before the grave of Archibald Finkle.

"Wrong. Your skull suffered a fatal wound, you had no pulse, blood poured onto the sidewalk. Do you actually expect people to think otherwise?"

"John knew me."

"John knew you, and you committed suicide. He likely thought you never had it in _you_."

"And that is precisely why he shouldn't stop looking for me, Mycroft! I heard him that day, here, in the graveyard. He said something very strange, he said, 'Just stop it, stop _this._' He knows. He knows it isn't me, he knows I don't have it in me, he knows—just like he knew that night with the cabbie—that something isn't right. Not this time." Sherlock swallowed fiercely, a lump swelling in his throat. He felt Mycroft behind him and looked down at the dew-speckled grass. The entire landscape had become curiously blurry.

"Don't go looking for signs where there aren't any."

Sherlock spun around, burning with savage anger. "Don't stand here telling me not to look for signs. I wasn't looking, Mycroft, they were simply there! I don't believe for one second that John is the kind of man to accept lies and false proofs. If he were, he would never have agreed to associate himself with me! He would have left like all the rest. John Watson is not a coward, an idiot, or someone who worked with me out of sheer pity. Even you, Mycroft, couldn't get him to betray me after one day! You like to sneer and prod and mock our relationship, but it's only because you stopped believing in loyalty so long ago that even you and I are on opposing sides of the trenches! It isn't right, it isn't okay, and I loathe you for it. You never believed in yourself, not ever, and you took all that dissatisfaction and bitter resentment and put it on me! Look at me, look at who I am. Don't tell me for one minute that all these things you've done to me haven't contributed to the hardhearted man I am today! What's really hateful is that I despise him at times more than I do you. You _ruined _who I could have been and I will never overlook that."

He didn't stay to see the look of anguish cross Mycroft's pallid face. He swept away, striding off to God knows where—another nondescript place to play hide and seek for the night—and was passing a large statue of an angel when Mycroft broke the silence.

"Saturday."

Sherlock halted and studied the angel. It was both elegant and ridiculous; what divine being wrapped itself in bed sheets?

"He spoke to Mrs. Hudson. He's coming here this Saturday."

"John," said Sherlock. It wasn't a question or a statement, just a emotion that settled like ashes in the corners of his eyes and burned.

"Yes."

Without another word, Sherlock moved on, the distant streetlamps growing ever closer.

"Sherlock." Mycroft's voice was thin and sounded unfamiliar. "I…I'm sorry." His voice wobbled a bit on the last word, yet Sherlock was indifferent. As always, his brother was late.

* * *

**Hi everyone! Sorry for the wait; I'm finally back and running. I think I may have been more absorbed in this chapter than in any other piece of of my own writing. I really felt it, and I hope that comes through. Thank you for taking time to read, and for the wonderful reviews. You are all great!**

**With many hugs,  
**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	6. Chapter Four

John awoke Saturday to a morning of cloudless sunshine. He felt marginally better about his life circumstances, and donned shirt, trousers, socks and shoes with a touch of zeal—today was a visit to the cemetery. As he buttered his toast, he thought it was a bit pathetic that his greatest joy came to him while standing amongst the dead, but it was true. A temporary lack of loneliness and need was not a good a day; it was a brilliant one.

By the time John reached the burial ground, he had dealt with a highly unpleasant cabbie, two cross teenagers who were very likely sloshed, and a terrifying Rottweiler that had gotten free of its leash. Unwilling to be deterred from the task at hand, John set his jaw, straightened his jacket, and set forth, completely alone. He passed grave after grave, until the headstones blurred into a tiring monotony of grey. He passed an enormous granite angel, and dragged his gaze a fraction of an inch to the right. There was the immense pine, stalwart and silent as ever and there was the glossy headstone of—oh my God.

John froze where he was, brain whirring to a halt, stomach twisting, heart jumping painfully. No. _No_. He was wrong; he knew he was wrong, but oh my God. Simply, unequivocally, irrefutably, oh my God.

Seized with a terror and hope so exquisite John thought he might vomit, his body reacted violently to the sight confronting him; it began to tremble and shake, his heart beat at odd moments, too rapidly, then not at all. And dear god in heaven—Sherlock Holmes was sitting on his own gravestone.

John choked. Six months of misery and heartbreak swelled in his throat and refused to budge, leaving him gasping, unnerved, confused to the core.

"John."

John's internal organs jolted; he quite literally felt his liver drop an inch. Goosebumps erupted on his forearms.

"Please stay." The request was evenly spoken, but dreadfully sad, and John couldn't turn away.

He stepped closer to the man sitting straight-backed on the headstone, head spinning. "No," he said, harsh and low. "No, I can't stay, because, _god. _I can't. You, sitting there… Not real. Not _real_."

"I am real. I can and I will explain."

John balled his hands into fists, knowing he was breathing like a winded rhinoceros and not caring a bit. "You. Are. Dead." He murmured. "I saw you fall. I saw you fall and I checked for pulse and there wasn't one, and I went to the funeral and I stood at your grave—" He broke off, overtaken by a fresh wave of grief.

"And you saw what you expected to see."

"Stop it. Stop it, why the hell would I expect to see you kill yourself? Jesus, I'm a doctor, I would have known if you were alive. Even now, you treat me like a damn idiot!"

Sherlock stood, and John disliked having to look up to meet eye contact. "Please, John, I need to explain."

John put a hand on his forehead. Why was the cemetery tipping so dreadfully?

"You knew what I intended to do. We both thought it was plausible to find those lines of computer code in the flat, use them to destroy Richard Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty. But the code wasn't in the flat, it was on me."

"I don't—"

"Finger tapping."

"What?"

"Simple pattern: the beats act as digits. Each beat is a one, each rest," sighed Sherlock, "is a zero. Binary code. My mind didn't register it at the time, but Moriarty did the tapping in my presence. He did, in essence, plant the code on me—I should have realized sooner."

"But you could've used that—you could have told me—"

Sherlock held up a hand. "No. I was wrong, the code was utterly meaningless."

"But how—"

"Daylight robbery, as I believe Moriarty put it. A few willing participants and anything's possible. Or, at least that's what he wanted me to believe."

John staggered to the pine and leaned against it.

"The only way for Moriarty to complete his story was to kill me off. I suspected it, and I planned accordingly."

"Planned…planned what?" panted John, a curious ringing in his ears. "To die?"

"To seem so." Sherlock was pale and somber above his navy scarf; his cheeks were extremely hollow. "And you couldn't know about it, John, because—"

"Because what? I'm not trustworthy? Not clever enough to keep a secret?" John shook his head. "_Jesus_."

"No, because you would have been killed if Moriarty's men hadn't seen me jump. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade, too."

"Couldn't you have stopped him?"

"I thought I couldn't call it off, as he'd said the code was useless, but then Moriarty said something interesting. He said, 'Your death is the only thing that's going to call off the killers. I'm certainly not going to.' And then I saw, I understood. There _was_ a code."

"Oh my god, oh my god…" John felt ill, too many things were crashing in on him at once; it was devastating.

Sherlock closed his eyes. "So, I told Moriarty I could _make _him call off the killers, and he…shot himself."

John swore.

"He faked it, of course…but still, rather inconvenient." Sherlock forced a bitter laugh.

"And you couldn't have, I don't know, _walked away_?"

"I told you—the assassins wouldn't be satisfied until I killed myself."

"The world thinks you're an effing fool, Sherlock! 'Fake detective commits suicide!' It was everywhere, and people on all sides kept telling me to believe your story, they kept saying it was true; that you were a freak who created crimes just to solve them!" John flung his arms about, fury physically palpable. "And do you know what it looked like, my believing in you? It looked like was a naïve idiot! My God, Sherlock, you were my best friend, how did you think I'd react to seeing you dead on the pavement? You thought I'd just pass it off as another one of your half-arsed schemes?"

Sherlock grimaced. "John, I—"

"You knew! You bloody well knew what I've been through, with Afghanistan and PTSD and a therapist, and all! And still, _still, _you thought it was somehow all right to put me through this misery! Six goddamn months, Sherlock! Six months of—I can't even explain it—hell, just wreckage. Life in wreckage, relationships in wreckage, stability in wreckage, past in wreckage, future in wreckage." Tears swarmed John's vision. "You really fucked everything up, you know that? And it's a damn shame. Things could have been a lot different." With a heavy heart, a breaking one, John moved away from the tree trunk and roughly past Sherlock.

"Heroes do exist."

John paused. He debated walking on, giving Sherlock a taste of what he'd dealt with for far too long. But try as he might, he couldn't. After so many quiet moments spent wishing for Sherlock's return, John's body wouldn't simply wouldn't allow him to leave. With a sigh, he surrendered to the inevitable and spun round on his heel. "What are you saying?"

"It takes most people a herculean amount of effort just to tolerate my existence, and, I assure you, John, there are quite a few people much relieved by my 'suicide.' Sergeant Donovan, for instance."

"Don't."

"The point is, you witnessed my faults, discrepancies and obstinacy and still decided to share a flat. You agreed to solve crimes together. You then proceeded to become a friend. An only friend. And in the end, even I couldn't persuade you to believe a lie I'd created about myself. Only a hero," Sherlock murmured.

"A good friend," said John, "Not a hero."

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back. "Perhaps they mean the same."

The lump in John's throat intensified to an unbearable degree. "I don't know what to do," he said with quiet defiance. "Things will never be the same, and I'm still hurt, still angry, still worried. Hell, now I've got to deal with you alive! And you know what, Sherlock—there's a part of me that damn well wants to leave you standing here in the graveyard, tough shit."

Sherlock's gaze had remained downcast, but he glanced up sharply, vulnerable in anxiety. "And will you?"

John's ability to speak deserted him, and he made his decision without hesitation. He understood profoundly what a horrific disappointment life could be if one let it—an aching turmoil of unrequited love, half-realized dreams, bitter regret, doors closing, unspoken words, forgiveness withheld, and he _would_ be set free from that toxic cycle, or die trying.

John did what he had never done before; he crossed the dewy grass between them, pulled Sherlock in by the lapels of that confounded, miraculous coat, and sobbed.

* * *

**Hardest. Thing. I've. Ever. Written. Gah, that took me over two weeks to write, and I started and re-started many times. Thank you for staying along for the ride anyhow, and I hope you found this reunion to your satisfaction. I nearly died writing it. ;) There may or may not be more to come, but I****'ll know in a few days.  
**

**Thank YOU, you amazing people out there!  
**

**Cheers,  
**

**-Spark Writer-  
**

**P.S. I'm now experiencing a wicked case of Reichenbach feels ALL OVER AGAIN. Ah, well, season 3 begins filming next month. Yes, next month-I can't believe it, either. :D  
**


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